Four Lumps of Sugar
by tetraphobia
Summary: "Normal children, he called them - for he was not one of them". Interpretation on Sherlock Holmes' childhood. Canon-based.
1. Dry and Composed

Most sincerely, I am yet uncertain of where this is going. It grew by itself and took shape within my mind before I could even process its first intentions. It made me sketch and it made me dribble; soon enough I had a plot bunny, a chapter written and a whole universe nesting into my imagination. I can't quite describe what the story is meant to unfold later on, so I'll refrain from trying any further and just allow myself to say it's about Holmes - little Holmes, actually. And what I believe (in my own interpretation, obviously) to have shaped his childhood. There will be original characters all along, for very little we know about Holmes' past, really; recreating it all would invariably require some making up of my own. But I strongly hope all such characters are acceptable and believable from the start.

I won't put up any serious warnings for now, though I would like to say it addresses **depression**, **psychological disorders** and **sheer loneliness** quite a bit. It's not precisely angsty, I think (or hope - and I could be wrong, wouldn't be surprised if I were), but not a happy romance, that's for sure.  
Also, it's **canon based**, although it's still merely a personal interpretation. Don't take it too seriously and please do not be offended if the image I try to create is not the very same you would (or the great Sherlockians would, for that matter). It is not my intention.

Last but not least: English is not my first language and, for so, I am bound to make mistakes (although I dread it so very much). Yet I have a very deep admiration for the English Grammar and I do try my best to never offend its rules. If there's any typo or poorly built sentence at sight, please let me know. I'd like to improve, as much as I possibly can. I had not yet allowed myself to publicly post any of my Sherlock Holmes fanfiction, so this is a scary moment of self-confrontation and I want to make the best of it.

* * *

**I**

Strong and cold, so very cold, were those little hands wrapped around her finger. Bold and demanding, they were. Somehow scarily masterful, for such a tiny pair. Filled with both dread and a striking amount of loneliness - after being robbed of their warm, gentle nest, and forced into a gigantic space of cold nothingness. Bitter air flooding its lungs, blinding lights burning its tiny eyelids. How could it not scream and weep in despair? Clenching its small fists tightly and clinging to any sort of human warmth that came into its reach.

No clue did it have of the dread that overtook that slender finger and its entire body frame as one of said desperate little hands circled round it. Nothing yet could it see of the shaken expression, the quivering lips, the widening hazel eyes staring at the tiny creature that cried so soundly on her arms. Not the first time it was that she had held such a small fruit of her own blood. Seven years before she had done the very same. But then, those widening hazel eyes had fallen on broad, rather round little shoulders and bulky, rather lazy little hands.

None of that bold strength of grasp or that bony pair of arms - no, neither of those were familiar. Never could she have expected that tiny, thin and frail little thing that was now begging for her motherly care. What a frightening sight it was; such a helpless baby. Strong and masterful, but so very helpless in its confusion. So very awkward and helpless in its confusion.

A heavy and harsh-skinned hand suddenly fell upon her shoulder and it was all she could do to quickly untangle from the frightening grasp of the baby and wipe those pathetic streaks of tears that forced their way down her cheekbones. How pitiful! Crying like a little girl, scared to the bones for something so small and harmless. Yet she could not help herself. Her teeth were grinding, but still she could not help herself. Something nameless and overbearing was flooding her loins, was clouding her senses. Weak, it was. So very weak, succumbing to such an emotional disorder. That was not she. No, it couldn't possibly be she. Not the self-composed, rational mind of a woman that stood so tall for her pride and dignity.

No failed attempt at smiling she made - of what use would it be? Such a pointless lie. No. Emotionless she remained, majestically sat on the mattress, despite the red, swollen eyes and the unmistakable stains of shredded tears. Not once did she turn to face the tall figure whose hand was still weighting her down. She was already certain of what she would find on that distant, self-absorbed face of a man. And she could not take it. Not quite yet.

"I will ask for the nurse," the grave, rather stern, male voice echoed for a little while on her ears. Nothing did she say in return - merely nodding and wiping her hand once more against wet cheeks. Persistent were those tears, no matter how harshly she loathed them and loathed them. For a long while still they'd keep on rolling down, against both will and necessity. But no one round that pitiful image of a woman would dare utter a word about it. Not again would they take such dangerous risk.

As soon as the helpless thing was carried off of her arms, an enormous strike of relief overtook her senses. A few more drops of salty tears would make their way down her chin, but soon enough her eyes would finally turn dry. Dry and composed, just as it should be.

The few remainings of those twenty-four hours went by torturously slow. And not an inch did she move from where she sat, majestic still, face towards the large windows. The sun rolled down behind the rooftops and the sky changed from blue to pink to red to purple - until it faded colourless and the black shadows covered the entire city, making room only for the little star drops and the misty shine of the moon. All this she watched safely from behind the glass, from among her sheets - away from the frightening living creature she had so desperately handed to the nurse. Every now and then an intruder would inquire about her health, would ask if they could be of any assistance. Harshly she would send them away, one by one. Solitude - it was presently the only medicine for the illness that was slowly consuming her usually strong self. Now what a pathetic broken thing she had manifested into. It was unbearable.

Down fell her eyelids, pressing tightly against each other as two very cold womanly hands dove into her mass of hair. A beautiful, thick, black mass, it was. The most exquisite feminine streaks of hair: delicate and strong, soft and plentiful - what a pride it brought, such magnificent hair. And what a perfect match for her features. Not a particularly beautiful complexion, really; yet somehow the bony chin, the perfectly shaped lips and the soft drops of pink on her cheeks couldn't possibly go without the rather harsh nose, the heavy brow line and the arresting little hazel eyes underneath them - constantly distant, eternally unreachable. A strange mix of delicacy and determination. Precisely like her hair.

But where had such pride gone? How could it abandon her on such desperate a moment? How dare it leave and not even apologise, making her weak and mournful - again! It was not acceptable. Not for that helpless little thing of a baby. She could still recall, seven years earlier, those ridiculous medical words that shook her ground. "I am afraid she might be facing some sort of postpartum depression, sir." Depression! How dare he - depression! She was not a weak-minded creature like those pitiful women - no! She was not one to succumb to emotions - never! She merely didn't want to touch the thing - to touch that tiny, wrinkled little thing that was crying and crying and driving her out of her mind. She did not hate it. She would not even hurt it. And she was not crying herself - she wasn't! Those weren't her hands shaking! Her hands were steady and beautiful and determined. How dare he say otherwise!

Yet she could shout and protest all she wanted, he'd merely stare at her, eyes full of something utterly painful to acknowledge. Something violently offensive to her pride, something kind of nature but enraging all the same: something close to _pity_.

How ashamed she had felt. How terribly ashamed she had felt. She the successful, the aspiring, the strong-willed had failed as a mother. Never would she bear such weakness. Never would she oblige to what said doctor prescribed her. And every dawn she would force herself to enter its room and face its little cradle - so small and so tender a cradle. She'd take the bulky creature into her arms and not once would she admit to tremble. But no more than a few minutes could she stand it - before the terror took hold of everything. Then to the open arms of the nurse it would go and out the door ran the mother. Longing for solitude, eager to forget.

What a blow it had been to find out it would happen again. After painfully dealing with that little burden for seven long years - silently keeping her distance, secretly avoiding all contact - it would happen again. Another baby would fall upon her arms and what could she do but pretend to embrace it? What could she do but fake indifference? What could she do but silently wait and strongly restrain her tears? Dry and composed, always.

All gone to waste. Those long-suffering eight months of labor - no conditions she had to bear the ninth; and when the baby came at last, to cease the torture of anticipation, it brought along the very same terror, the very same shivers, the very same weakness from seven years before. Worse still - it brought an anxiety even stronger. There was something quite amiss about this cold-handed baby. She knew for certain, she had no doubts - something was not quite right.

...

Once she reopened her eyes, there was an orange flame lighting the room. A single candlestick silently placed upon the bedstead. She had seen no one and had heard no voices. Yet the candle was lit and its fiery glimmer brightened her miserable eyes. "All the better," she thought. For it was solitude she wanted - the only medicine for the illness that was slowly consuming her usually strong self.

"I shall keep my distance," she silently uttered to the empty space, crossing her delicate hands on her lap. "I shall keep my distance and I shall not touch it anymore. I shall not see it anymore. It will be safe on the hands of the nursery maids and I needn't interfere. I needn't torture myself no more. For I cannot stand to fall weak and helpless over so little a thing twice. I don't deserve such shame. And it does not deserve such burden."

So it was set. And so it was made. For the frail, bony, helpless little thing was bound to grow without a mother - Sherlock Holmes was bound to know what loneliness actually meant.


	2. Heave no Longer

I believe I should apologize; this one chapter is quite a bit longer than the previous one and I'm almost sure it's not half as interesting. Still, it's the proper introduction to little Holmes himself and to the world he lived in (in this one universe within my mind, of course). I hope it's not way too boring and I also hope the characters are convincing - not only Miss Bree, but Mr Holmes as well.

Also, I must say I did some more research this time and well, having an historian for a mother sure does help. But there might be something amiss every now and then regarding the time period. For that, I am sorry. And I'd like to say that the previous chapter was set in January 6, 1854, which is - you all probably know - the fictional date set in Baring Gould's chronology for Holmes' birthday. I'll abide to that; meaning this one chapter is set some five years later in 1859. But what I'd like to mention in fact is that the medical term and condition of "Postpartum depression" was first discovered right in the 1850's, which makes it more possible (yet I don't dare say "likely", since they'd have to be very up to date) for Mrs. Holmes' doctors to be aware of it at the time. What with their family being in the upper class (country squires) and all. Not that I'm trying to excuse myself for anything, I was just glad to know it and wanted to share, considering some doubts I had before, also mentioned by one of you reviewers. As for you, I can only say "thank you" and hope not to disappoint from now on. I don't expect reviews nor do I depend on them to continue, but I certainly appreciate the gesture. (:

Last but not least, the notes for this one chapter: like previously said, it's more of an introduction and a personal attempt at painting an image of what I have in mind rather than anything else. I am sorry if it seems too long and to be lacking a purpose. I promise I'm getting somewhere with this, even if it does not look like it. orz As for Holmes' mother, yes, I picked a new name for her, unlike his father's - decided to keep the Siger from Baring Gould. Mostly because it's rather widely known within the fandom. I just don't believe Violet should be his mother's name solely because it's a constant in the canon. It was, indeed, a very common name at the time, so I decided to go for something different. Aletha, for those who don't already know it, means _truth_.

**P.s.:** In case someone's interested, I made a tumblr account for the story, where I can upload some of my sketches and other notes as well. (fourlumpsofsugar[dot]tumblr[dot]com)

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**II**

The pale morning light slid through his bony fingers, down his wrists, all the way along his trepid little arms stretched towards the clouds above. So bright seemed the grey tinted skyline, his eyes must remain half-closed - safely protected underneath heavy eyelids and long, entangled black eyelashes. Very little could be seen of the silver glimmering orbs that had, five years before, opened up for the very first time to a motherless universe.

Where everything was a mere glimpse of feminine hands through the keyhole; a ruffle of skirts out the front door; a lonely hum of an old song through the walls. Never would it grow past this barrier of personal avoidance. Except for those very few, very rare moments of pity when one would allow the little unwanted child to hold its mother's portrait before bedtime. "That's lady Aletha, young master. Isn't she a beauty, your mother?" And they must always smile despite themselves - a comforting smile that grew no roots in honesty whatsoever.

Very little would he smile back, then; merely nodding and allowing his sharp, rather gloomy eyes to travel along every feature of the stranger so perfectly captured in said portrait - as if memorizing its complexion before it could once again be robbed of his memory. Replaced with those few secret glimpses of an unknown someone that would not once face him, not once pet his hair, not once call for his name. Someone he could not yet miss, for one cannot possibly miss that which one never possessed.

Yet he knew, from the very first hum that came through the walls, that this someone ought to be of very great importance. For a strange kind of aching would consume his tiny chest whenever he was told not to trespass that closed door. Whenever the nursery maids must suddenly draw him to an empty chamber so that said someone could cross through the study.

"Who's that stranger humming in the living room, Bree? Whose hat is that laying on the table?" A long while it took before his questions were answered - and still all he got was a rather quick, secretive kind of an answer; never fully satisfied, never fully secure of its honesty. Presently he knew her name and had already learned to call her "mother". Though never could he fully grasp the real meaning of such a term. To the five year old that never knew motherly care, it would be the very same as "sunset", "flower" or "garden": nothing but a six-lettered word.

A brother and a father he had, though. Both of which he saw very little and addressed to even less. So very cold and so very distant they were - even when a strong manly hand would sternly pat his little head or a pair of childish steel-grey eyes would fall upon his features during supper, he felt so dreadfully far. So dreadfully small and far.

"I don't quite like them people, Bree," he once muttered. "They are so awfully tall." And what could she do, the poor nurse, but scold at the helpless child that gripped tightly to the skirt of her dress. "Don't say such 'orrible things, young master. They're your family. You 'ave to love and respect them." She would say with a miserable sigh. And never again did he repeat those first words of apprehension, trying so very hard to oblige to this newfound duty.

It wasn't an easy task, though, he learned. And an awful long while it would take before such childish dread made room for any other sort of emotion. Before he could learn of the longing that had grown his brother so silent - for he, unlike little Sherlock, had had a mother to lose. Before he could realize what a painfully lonely man his father had manifested into - incapable of gazing at his own children without immediately recalling the burden his poor wife had brought into the family.

Until then, he could but dread those horribly awkward moments at the dinner table. All silence, all distance, all solitude - a shared kind of solitude that he was yet too young to distinguish. But that never did cease to silence his hunger. Hardly any food could make its way down the narrow throat, for there was much too bitter anxiety filling his loins; no room was left for nutrition.

Very thin he grew and very grave - so very frighteningly grave, for such a young child. Motherless and permanently haunted with the insecurity of the unwanted, he was rather avoided by other children. Normal children, he called them. For they were not constantly mirroring silence and longing like his household did. Oblivious they seemed to anything other than mere childish happiness - the one that grows from seemingly everything and spreads nearly everywhere. Blossoming into bursts of laughter and joyous smiles. Normal children, he called them - for he was not one of them.

And they knew it. They very certainly knew it. Taking their safety distance and avoiding all awkward eye contact for their parents had told them to. Time and time again they had told them to - so exceedingly eager to protect the fruit of their love from the dejected fruit of the others. "Eva! Eva, darling, don't! Don't get too close! Come play over here with your little friends! That's a good child - come!"

Time and time again they had whispered. Time and time again he had heard them. Until not a gaze would he dare shoot towards another child for much too long. Even when left unnoticed, the previous shame was so that he would feel uncomfortable for the others - embarrassed and uncomfortable for the others. Although unsure of what said turmoil in his little belly could be, he would shrink and recoil. Afraid of what could be said - rather, afraid of what _had been said_. For not always would the children grow distant and silent, like his own brother had always been. At first, when he was yet too small to step back, yet too oblivious to shrink, they had looked down on him. Frowning as if faced with a leper.

The older ones had grown hostile and impatient. So young, yet so full of themselves. Taught how to be superior. Taught how to weight the weak down. And so they did, the normal children; not afraid they were of pointing their little fingers, accusingly. "You have no right to talk to us! You have no mother! Your family is broken!"

And how - he wondered - could he possibly prove them wrong? What words could he ever resort to when cornered like thus against a cold brick wall? "I do have a mother! I've seen her portrait on the living room! I've picked up her hat from the table! I've listened to her humming!" Yet he would swallow such syllables, without ever letting a sound escape his tightly shut lips. They could only echo within the boundaries of his own mind. For how silly, he thought, how silly of me to say so. To assume - and so pretentiously assume - that a short glimpse at a painted figure beneath a piece of glass could ever make up for the absence they referred to. A portrait is not a mother - he'd tell himself, grinding his teeth in a cold, mindless urge for bale; a portrait is just a portrait. It doesn't breathe. It doesn't nurse. It's a portrait and nothing else.

Hence he'd fall to silence; his voice crumbling to a dead pile at his feet. Therefore feeding their adverse intentions with a warm tinge of victory. The very same tinge that quickly brought a smile to their features and gave way to a rush of bitter accusations he had no means of shielding himself against. He could but listen. And slowly, unintentionally, let the word-shaped acid root into his empty stomach. Perhaps I don't have a mother, he'd ponder, later at night, pulling the sheets over his head and staring into the darkness that swallowed him whole. Perhaps my family is broken, indeed. Perhaps - he'd frown amongst the shadows; _perhaps they're right_.

...

"Sherlock! Sherlock, where the deuce are you?" Bree's voice came in an echo, shifting through the leaves and the bushes, reaching out its arms from the open window - quite so far away from his spot at the garden. It made him blink and it got his little brows to frown a little, as the sun seemed to break his focus, light leaking into his eyes and washing away all of their surroundings, like a wave does to the sand.

A little pair of hands came down from their failed attempt to reach the sky above and brushed against his eyelids; only then did he make a move to sit up; lifting his small frame from the thick grass upon which he had been laying for God knows how long. A murky blur of colours - losing all shape and mass and volume - took hold of his sight. Yet he could rub and scrub all he wanted; the world had its own pace for coming back to focus. And as it did (unhurriedly), the very first thing the little one could distinguish before himself was a small pair of open wings, spread upon the green blanket that took hold of the garden grounds. Brown and blue and silver at the very tip - thus were its feathers, over layering each other so very graciously still.

Two grey eyes sank upon the breathless chest of the little bird nested between his legs. His bruised knees bending softly like a frame to the three-dimensional painting of a dead baby bird. The very same baby bird he had collected from underneath a pile of dried leaves and brought into the sunlight to watch its lifeless body up close. Not for a second did he dread the rather brute fact that said bird's heart was no longer beating; it probably hadn't done so for days - he thought. And not even now, as his eyes fought against the dissipating mist before them and his mind roamed between the conscience and the daydream, not even now did he fear that little symbol of death. He could but find it fascinating. What with all those home lessons he had overheard, crouching very silently and very still against the door whenever his older brother would be in the study room with his governess - the very same governess that would so soon become his own.

"Sherlock? Oh, thank goodness! Young master, where on Earth 'ave you been? We was all into an uproar back in the 'ouse and your father came down and- Oh, dear Lord!" A catch of breath came along with a humble shriek as she stopped herself midway into the sentence.

Her skirt had been ruffling across the grassy floor as she came in a rush towards the little boy and his lifeless friend; only then, once her eyes caught hold of the tiny creature in endless sleep between his legs, did she stop. In a gasp that brought her right hand straight to her bosom and froze her small, feminine feet to the ground - as if made of stone. Rosy lips were still parted, yet not a word would they utter.

A small and childish head turned about to face her pale complexion. Colourless, poising above him in a frozen state of shock that last for a couple more seconds still; those during which he could hear nothing but the gentle whisper of the wind caressing the treetops like the touch of a hand. Regardless, as if impartial to time itself and to all the beauty of human existence, a tiny purple stain upon the left side of the nurse's apron suddenly caught his steel-grey eyes and drove everything else to lose its shine instead - _she'd been making a pie; a blueberry pie, that is._

One blink and said thought was gone.

At last, hence the silence grow roots between them, she spoke once more. "Oh, young master, for Christ's sake! You playing with dead things again? My Lord, what am I to do now, with this bird! It's going to stink all over the 'ouse! And I can't possibly bury it in the garden - milady would be so displeased!"

So she mumbled. And so he listened; watched; took notice. Although utterly still he stayed, so very childlike, nesting the bird between his legs like a little treasure. All along her precious hands clasped nervously to one another and her warm green eyes roamed from here to there, from far to close, and back to the starting point; consumed in anxiety, desperate to find solutions in a vast field of unanswered questions. It was not the first time - oh no, it was certainly not the first time. Merely a week before she had found him with a row of dead bees upon his windowsill, under the sight of his father's magnifying glass. Not much sooner, in fact, she had also seen him - and how terrified the poor nurse had become - poking a dead squirrel with a wooden stick, right into an open wound. What with the vermin still eating its flesh; he seemed not to care a tiny bit. So absorbed in his unusual study - for what else could it possibly be? she wondered. The sweet and the courageous Bree, suddenly trembling like that before a little child. It wasn't right, no. It was certainly not right! She mustn't panic.

And so she didn't. Five dead bees were sent unto the garbage, along with the rotten food and the cold leftovers from the previous supper. One dead squirrel was handed to a fellow seamstress - so eager was she, the poor woman, to make herself a scarf and later on sell it for a fortune. One dead bird, thus, would soon find itself disposed off in a similar fashion, as quickly as she could possibly conceive a plan. Yes, she was settled.

Enough with the clasping and unclasping, she told herself. Enough with the anxious eyes running about the garden like a pair of wild horses. Sternly she set her focus upon the little creature whose chest would heave no longer and dove a hand unto her bosom, retrieving a dingy handkerchief from within. "Go back inside, young master, for your father is all over the 'ouse looking for yous! The maids was in a fit and your mother- oh, never mind your mother! Go on, dear, go on! I'll take care of this thing, now go!"

Unable he was, for a seemingly endless while, to detach his focus from the cold little body of the bird as it was captured from its previous nest and hurriedly folded inside the nurse's kerchief. Her fingers trembling like a little girl's as she handled its frail wings and avoided, by all means, to stare into its lifeless eyes. A dense and disturbing smell had risen, drawing a frown upon her features, yet incapable of breaking her will; she'd dispose of the baby bird and she'd dispose of it quickly.

So the five year old could tell, for it was set onto her eyes like a blazing fire and however could he dare defy it? He had his little legs moving already, driving him home instinctively, as if caught by an invisible string that pulled him back and pulled him strongly unto the safety of his own bedroom. Slowly at first, for his eyes refused to bid goodbye to his departed friend; quickly then, once said friend came out of his sight and disappeared between the hands of his nursery maid. Hence he turned to face the cold stonewalls of his own home: stretching its arms about to swallow him in the sober embrace of its boundaries.

A single step left to drown into the low-lights of the kitchen when his little feet suddenly came to a halt. Some flour on the table; a pie yet not baked waiting at the balcony; a sleeping oven at the corner; a busy cook drying her hands upon her own dress - all familiar. All commonplace. Yet amongst them all, a glimpse of something that did not quite fit into the chamber. Something not yet stained by flour and not yet smelling of baked morning bread. Something tall and stern and dark, almost imperceptible under the yellow shine of the gas lamps - something quite alive, although so utterly still.

"Father, Sir?" His little voice came in a half-whisper. Pouring the syllables slowly, almost evasively, like one does when telling a secret. And so a shiver ran down his spine once a pair of familiar, rather cold black eyes fell upon him; leaving the empty spot at the wall that they were so firmly attached to before.

"Sherlock. What have you been doing? Don't you remember what I told you last week? Don't you remember your brother's departure to Harrow? You should be ready by now; your mother is-" Yet just like Bree and the maids and the butler, he did not dare go any further than that. Not when referring to _her_ - his mother, the one in the portrait, the owner of the hat, the hummer behind those walls; no, he mustn't continue. Therefore he stopped himself with a gulf of oxygen and set his gloomy eyes firmly upon the rather filthy state of his little boy's garments. So very recently changed from the white, feminine dress of the young age to the respectful boyish apparel. "By Jove, look at you! All that grass and dirt on your clothes. Son, do you have no shame? We have half an hour before the coach arrives and you look... deplorable."

Shame he had, indeed - one of greater lengths, in fact, than that which consumed him when under the stare of the children. For it was not caution mistrust that brought such a violently cold gaze upon his father's eyes. It was honest disapproval. Rather, it was disappointment at its most sincere state. And what a flame of red hue it brought to the little boy's usually pale cheeks; his head drooping in silence and his little eyes finding refuge upon the filthy floor of the kitchen. Yet he did not apologise. He did not and he would not do so, for it was weak. It was weak and it was pitiful; the Holmes did not apologise; they barely erred in the first place - or so he had heard, countless times, from the lips of the very same man that now stood before him like a pillar.

The cook's judgmental stare followed them round, secretively, as Master Siger Holmes seized the little boy's bony wrist and dragged him along towards the hallway. Something else he uttered in the meanwhile about obedience and decency and responsibilities as they strode through the shadowed corridors, across several empty chambers and past the many staircases that flooded their household like the plague. Although his son's mind absorbed very little of said flow of words; firmly focused instead upon the grasp around his wrist.

A grasp so familiar and so full of meaning; to the five year old who barely spoke with his own relatives and never laid eyes upon his mother, it was a symbol of proximity. Bold and demanding and very masterful, indeed, said grasp was all about warmth and strength without bearing contradiction; it meant possession without being possessive; it meant control without being manipulative. It meant contact at last - one that he lacked so vehemently - without crushing his father's authoritarian posture and without shattering his sense of dignity.

Despite the shame that took hold of his senses, the little boy felt safe and close, for the cold distance that kept them so far apart was broken - at least for a split fraction of time. And so he cherished it, like a treasure, like the baby bird he had recently lost, and he made a silent wish to his own self: _please, let me grow strong and admirable like my father, so that I can hold one's wrist in such a way and say, without really speaking at all, everything that needs to be said._

...

The bedroom door shut soundly behind him and, with a blink of an eye, his mind was forced back to reality, to face the silent and empty space of his own chambers. His father's voice now a distant mumble from behind the walls, directed at a maid or at the butler - it did not matter in the least; what mattered, indeed, was that it was not at himself.

He was left alone once more, with his childish earthly possessions and the pale light of the morning tinging the floor beneath the windows. And he did not dare move a muscle as he waited for Bree to come. For she would come, yes - she always did.


End file.
